


the man of my home the father of my (cat) children

by blindbatalex



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, a lot of fluff really, and so does brad, cat fic, god i love kittens, inaccurate portrayals of sport injuries, the rating may move up?, with some pining sprinkled in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-07-06 02:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 16,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15876423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: When Brad is sidelined with an injury he finds the key to preserving his sanity in fostering a litter of kittens.  Patrice does not mean to become their co-parent.This WIP is back from the dead and it will update once a day!





	1. the injury

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I am doing anything like this; all encouragement is welcome and if there are specific things you want to see in the fic they can probably be worked in. Come find me on tumblr at @blindbatalex.
> 
> EDIT 3: IT LIVES!!! Nearly 6 months later I am back and determined to finish this thing. Expect one chapter per day (every other day?)

It’s a night like any other, a game like any other; then again it always is. TD Garden is buzzing around them, Coach gives a pre-game pep talk, and Brad chest bumps everyone in the tunnel.

There is perhaps a certain irony that it’s a slew-foot that takes Brad out. He has the puck, the Habs defender has no viable way of stopping him and so in he goes, sweeping Brad’s feet from under him. Brad falls on his back but he is too close to the boards and his leg bends up against the plexiglass.

It takes Patrice one look at him skating back to the bench to know it’s bad. 

There is nothing he can do but to play on.

*

“Before you say anything I know I may have had that coming,” Brad says as they leave the arena. There is a brace around his knee, he is on crutches, and the effort he puts into not wincing at every step makes Patrice angry in a way he can’t put to words.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Patrice replies with his hands up in the air only for Torey to respond that he totally was going to. 

Nobody deserves that. The many people Brad slew-footed didn’t deserve it back in the day and he for sure doesn’t deserve it now either, especially not after how hard he tried to clean up his game.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a fight

Brad has a tear in his MCL. It might take up to two months before he can return to practice which would take them into the start of the playoffs.

He jokes about it at first, says he will enjoy the life of a retiree with no cares in the world and nowhere to be, sleep and catch up on Game of Thrones while the rest of the team are working themselves to death.

They both know that’s a lie; neither of them say anything. 

But it becomes harder and harder to pretend everything is fine. 

Brad grows restless within a couple of days; he jiggles his good leg up and down as they watch TV. Pieces of his remote lie scattered across the floor and there is a dent in the wall when Patrice stops by the morning after they lose to the Canadiens at home. 

Patrice pretends not to notice and shows Brad the coffee he picked up from Brad's favorite place. The game was a close affair and almost went to overtime but in the end they lacked the spark to make something happen.

“You know I have an espresso machine at home right?” Brad asks from the couch, making no effort to take the cup. He has a few days’ beard; hasn’t shaved since he got injured. “You should focus on playing.”

In hindsight Brad probably doesn’t mean it like that but a jagged piece of the battery cover is sticking out from under the couch, Patrice is exhausted, and it’s so easy to let the guilt in his chest transform into something that cuts. 

“Being a good person doesn’t compromise your game, surprising as it may be.” he all but spits out.

Brad returns his look, doesn’t miss a beat before he tells Patrice he never asked for charity.

Charity-? To think he would wake up an hour early the day after a gruelling game to drive to the other end of town before morning practice _for charity_ -?

“You know what?” Patrice puts the cup on the coffee table, hard enough for some liquid to slosh out of the hole on the lid, tells Brad to stay there and be miserable by himself before he all but storms out of the apartment. Some of them don’t have the luxury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise there will be cats soon!!


	3. Chapter 3

There is a text from Brad - ‘sorry’ it reads - when Patrice fishes his phone out to turn it off. 

Patrice feels terrible about the morning. They both suck at dealing with injury, he has known it for years, and had no excuse to blow up at Brad like that when he isn’t the one with the busted knee.

And now he is on a plane to Nashville with the rest of the team on a road trip and all he can do is to type ‘I’m sorry too,’ before the plane takes off.

Once it lands they keep texting throughout the night on and off, apologize properly, until Brad stops replying around 10pm when Patrice assumes he dozed off.

There is one new text when he wakes up, sent at 3:05am.

**I think I’m going stir crazy :I**

Patrice looks at it, spins the phone in his hand but he doesn’t know what he can say to make it better...

...Not until Pasta shows him a video of a cat trying to scare the ocean over breakfast anyway. 

He texts the link to Brad with a smiley face before practice, hoping it falls on the side of cute and not annoying, and is delighted when Brad returns it with **EVEN TUUKKA CAN’T SCARE THE OCEAN LIL BABY** :3 in all caps.

So like any good friend he searches for more cat videos in the afternoon and sends best of the best Brad’s way.

He has always been more of a dog person and hasn’t had a pet since his old terrier passed away a couple of years ago but none of that matters if it helps Brad even just a little bit.

On the morning of the day they are supposed to fly back to Boston he wakes up to another night text from Brad, this time sent at 6am.

**OMG** , it reads, **you will never believe what just happened??**


	4. Chapter 4

When Brad declines to offer any more detail and stops responding to Patrice’s texts altogether, all Patrice can do is to show up at his door, suitcase and all, when they land back in Boston.

Given the hour he presumes it’s better to ring at the door than to let himself in using the spare key and waits nervously as the last note of the doorbell dies.

Brad is probably fine. He probably hasn’t run into a faith healer who promised to fix his knee or started a band out of boredom.

Probably.

“Pat!” 

Brad opens the door with a huge grin on his face, bouncing around the place like a five year old who found a full cookie jar and Patrice reconsiders.

Then Brad tells him to come in and meet the babies and Patrice almost has a heart attack where he stands.

Surely he couldn’t have adopted babies - _plural_ \- in the few days Patrice was gone? Surely it takes more time- unless, well unless a baby mama showed up at his door with his children. 

As he follows Brad inside Patrice notices a milk stain on the collar of Brad’s shirt.

A very tired and quiet part of his mind wonders whether this means that Brad and the mom will get together now for the sake of their kids. He doesn’t like that thought.

Brad opens the door to the small study he rarely uses.

Patrice looks inside expectantly but there is no crib, only the usual furniture- the desk, leather armchair by the bookcase - and in the other corner a large cardboard box. 

“Here, come and take a look,” Brad says happily, hopping towards it on his crutches. Patrice really hopes one person between Brad and the mom had more sense than to put a baby in a box.

Slightly horrified of what he may see, he follows Brad’s finger and lets out a heartfelt “thank God,” when all he can see in the box are towels with a couple fuzzy oddly shaped balls peeking out from between the creases.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my birthday and there are finally cats

“Did the ball just move?” Patrice asks, eyes still fixed at the box just as another ball extends out a tiny- is that a leg?- and lets out a soft helpless squeak.

Brad looks at his watch and declares it’s time to feed. He is already on his way to the kitchen and calling for Patrice by the time Patrice realizes that the balls are not balls but in fact very very small kittens.

*

“You found them on the lawn under some bushes?” Patrice repeats. Between the evening flight and the lingering horror that is the mental image of Brad with human babies stacked in a box he doesn’t feel particularly smart tonight.

Brad deftly lowers himself to the ground next to the box, careful not to bend his injured knee too much, and lays a towel on his lap.

He fills a large syringe with kitten formula, pops a plastic nipple on and picks up the first kitten from the box. A smile lights up his face when the kitten latches onto the nipple and starts to suckle with vigor, tiny feet kneading the air.

“Yeah. I heard Tuukka here screeching. The rest of the guys were pretty dirty and limp. Vet said another hour in the cold and they would have all been dead.”

There is a quiet wonder to Brad’s voice, as if the cats would be hurt if he raised his voice to conversational level. Patrice extends a hand and puts his index finger under Tuukka’s front paws without thinking, mesmerized with the motion.

That’s the other thing: there are four kittens in total, Brad can’t tell for sure but thinks they are all boys and he went and named them after his teammates. There is Tuukka, who has already started to graze Patrice’s skin with tiny claws and is the most active of the bunch. There is Pasta, a gold and white kitten who loves to snuggle, Bruce whom Brad calls the bossman, and the runt of the litter, Bergy.

Patrice really tries not to take that one personally. Brad finishes feeding everyone else before he gets to him and kitten Bergy is an ugly little thing - they all are with their eyes still closed and thin fur that exposes skin - but him especially so - and he is smaller than the rest. He doesn’t immediately latch onto the nipple either, squeaking and moving its tiny head around helplessly instead. 

“So fussy,” Brad murmurs as he wipes the formula dripping from his mouth and starts to gently brush the kitten with the toothbrush he picks up from the floor. Patrice didn’t even see there was a toothbrush there in the first place - just as he never thought neonatal kittens needed help to pee and to poop - but Brad seems to know what he is doing. Kitten Bergy calms visibly at being stroked and starts drinking the formula when Brad tries again.

“He is purring,” Brad says after a minute spent in silence. He moves the finger he has on Bergy’s throat - he explained earlier that it’s to make sure they are swallowing the food - and tells Patrice to come feel it for himself.

Patrice extends his index finger and puts it on the spot Brad made for him, gentle lest he hurt the kitten. 

It's nothing short of magical to feel tiny vocal cords hum against his finger and if his skin lights up at the touch memory at the warmth that is Brad’s finger brushing his and if something hurts in his chest, deep and unbidden, well-


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i may have lied _just a little bit_ when i said no angst. oops? also- [optional song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7mxXm0Avts) for the chapter ([loose translation of lyrics](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/kaybolan-y%C4%B1llar-lost-years.html-0))

It’s cold outside, precisely what you would expect from a Boston night in February. The wind cuts to the bone and Patrice likes it that way, likes how he is lightly shivering by the time he makes it to the car.

On a Greek island a lifetime ago, Brad’s fingers brush against his knuckles where they are curled around a wine glass. His smile is warm like the summer night – a subtle turn of lips for only Patrice to notice. They interlock over fresh sheets while early morning light filters in from the window neither of them bothered to close and they graze Patrice’s jawline and come to a stop on his lips. There is a look of awe in Brad’s eyes, as if what he sees is too good to be real, an illusion that will shatter in the first sudden motion.

Patrice rubs the inside of his hand against his jeans.

The memories are inconvenient but they are nothing out of the ordinary; it happens sometimes when he watches Brad make the day of a kid who adores him, or when Brad smiles at him late at night on the road, half asleep and too tired to be anything but himself.

Suppressing it only leads to a stronger outburst later, he learned that a long time ago, and so Patrice lets the feelings run their course that night and goes back the next day and then the day after. He watches Brad care for the kittens he is already half in love with, memorizes every motion his hands make as tiny mouths and tiny feet ask for food. He stares at the loving smile that lights up Brad’s face when Pasta stumbles into Tuukka and promptly falls asleep on top of his brother until it stops eliciting a reaction beyond what can be tucked neatly into the bounds of friendship. 

*

It’s in the same spirit that he shows up that evening at 8pm, with snacks for the two of them and a toy he bought for the cats.

He rings the bell and rings it again when there is no answer. The cats are definitely too young to play with the stuffed mouse, he knows that, but it was too cute to leave on the shelf and hey all kids grow up quick, right? He calls Brad’s phone next but to no avail; it rings until it goes to voicemail.

The sensible thing would be to leave and come back when Brad is back home but Tuukka’s eyes were halfway open yesterday. He wonders if they are fully open now, whether he has made any progress in his blind attempts to climb up and escape the box.

Brad probably knows him too well and cares too little to mind if Patrice used his spare key to just say a quick hello to the kittens, drop the toy on the coffee table with a note, and leave.


	7. Chapter 7

The house is quiet. Living room furniture casts strange shadows in the dying light of the dusk filtering from the windows and the sole lamp Brad must have left on before he left. For all of his chaotic energy on and off the ice Patrice admires how tidy Brad’s living space always is. A sense of him lingers about the place even in his absence in the absolute lack of clutter and the impeccable couch pillows. There is a warmth to the space that has nothing to do with the actual temperature.

Patrice smiles to himself as he makes it to the study. It almost feels like his grandma’s kitchen from his childhood when he would wait for her to step outside, and quickly move to treat himself to a pie or cookies that were cooling.

He freezes in place when he opens the door.

Brad is slouched against the wall on the floor next to the box, his head lolling on his chest.

As soon as he can move, Patrice all but runs to him, kneels by his side at lightning speed. “Brad.” he says, shaking Brad’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Brad-

Well, just as Patrice feels blood turn to ice in his veins, Brad opens his eyes and yawns really wide, frowning all the while.

“Bergy?” he asks, squinting as if he isn’t entirely convinced Patrice is real. “You scared me man.”

_I_ scared _you_ , Patrice doesn’t say, mostly because he is still too alarmed to speak. Brad is fine. Everything is fine.

*

Turns out Brad pushed himself too hard in PT, the trainers gave him a painkiller that was different than his usual, and it more or less knocked him out. Team doctor tells Patrice not to worry over the phone but to keep an eye on Brad for the next few hours if he can. Brad yawns some more and looks ready to doze off on the corner of the couch he moved to.

“Oh shit,” Brad says when he checks the time, buried halfway into the cushions and head resting in his hand. “Gotta feed the cats.” 

He looks towards the kitchen where the formula and the bottles are as if willpower alone can levitate him there. As if Patrice will let him do anything of the sort in his pitiful, drowsy state.

“No such thing. Let’s get you to bed and I will look after you both okay?”

Brad frowns and Patrice can see the wheels turning in his head, slowed down as he is by sleep, considering.

Patrice is no better when he is injured and it gets tiring sometimes- how difficult it is for either of them to accept help, when the other is right there, when it has no bearing on their game, nothing to do with grit or strength or whatever it is that makes you a good hockey player.

Thankfully Brad nods in the end; he is probably too tired to refuse, but tells Patrice he needs to wake him in three hours for the next round of feeding.

“I will,” Patrice assures him with absolutely no intention of doing so. 

He only realizes on the way to the kitchen he has no idea how you are supposed to make kitten formula.


	8. Chapter 8

Patrice is nothing if not methodical and resourceful. That usually comes in handy when managing injury or getting through tough streaks in the season, but as it turns out it applies equally well to caring for kittens.

He reads the instructions on the formula box, watches a couple YouTube videos, and as a final measure calls Backes for peace of mind.

“Wife got you on baby duty?” Backes asks with a chuckle.

Patrice almost corrects him, out of something like self defense, before he thinks better of it.

“Yours doesn’t?” 

Backes laughs with good humor, tells him it’s their fate. Once he stops, Patrice walks him through everything he found on feeding kittens, step by step, for Backes to confirm and tell him if there is anything he is missing.

Backes offers a tip here and there but has no major correction. 

“The babies are lucky to have such a thorough dad,” he says with approval in the end before he hangs up.

Patrice wishes they would collectively stop referring to the kittens as children as he starts mixing the formula.

*

He has watched Brad feed the kittens many times and has an idea what he needs to do but knowing something and doing it are still two different things.

He sits next to their box where Brad always sits and picks up Pasta who is the most malleable of the bunch. Although it’s only been a few days the difference in how much the cats have grown is noticeable. Pasta blinks with eyes that fully open now, his ears have perked up, and he moves with more intent if still on legs that are wobbly. He latches onto the bottle in no time when Patrice puts him on his lap with a towel wrapped around.

When he has been fed and has peed Patrice holds onto him for a moment, lets him stumble around on his lap and investigate his finger. Pasta sniffs with interest and then looks up at Patrice with round, gray eyes.

“Are you my son?” Patrice asks in French. There is a spark of warmth in his chest he can’t place, can’t be explained away with the time he spent in this room in order to desensitize himself. Pasta says _yes_ with a loud meow.


	9. Chapter 9

After finishing with the kittens, Patrice wanders in the house for a bit. He makes himself a quick dinner from the leftovers in Brad’s kitchen, settles with the food in front of the TV and turns on the night’s hockey game. 

The Stars are playing Winnipeg, they are playing the Stars in a few days time, and it’s a fast-paced game with a goal in the first ten minutes and many more close calls. Patrice has on occasion watched hockey he DVRed for eight hours straight, and there is no reason for his mind to keep wandering the way it does tonight.

Brad is fine. He knows Brad is fine. There is no rational reason to stay with him beyond a quick check. Besides Brad has taken to sleeping in the downstairs guest room so as not to hop up and down the stairs multiple times every night and there is no armchair or anything else to sit on in there except the bed. 

And yet his leg keeps bouncing on the sofa, the horror of finding Brad on the floor lingers, and he can’t focus on the game or his phone or a book.

He tells himself it’s not creepy if he doesn’t actually go to sleep with Brad as his little spoon. He tells himself he will just sit there with a safe distance between him and Brad, finish the game on Brad’s iPad and leave as quietly as he came in. He tells himself it’s safer that way and the doctor did tell him to keep an eye on Brad.

The bedroom is dark. Brad scrunches his eyes and sighs when the light from the iPad falls directly on his face. His breathing is even, his pulse is strong, and his fingers curl around Patrice’s wrist when Patrice moves to take it, lips curling in a smile that’s barely there.

“You wouldn’t do that if you were awake,” Patrice murmurs in French as he gently extracts his wrist away.


	10. Chapter 10

The game ends just in time for the next round of feeding. It’s much easier this time when Patrice knows he isn’t hurting them. Once the last kitten has been taken care of and the leftover formula stored in the fridge he heads back to Brad’s room with a yawn, just to check on him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks Brad, nudging him gently on the shoulder. Brad doesn’t open his eyes but says that he is, which is good enough.

The pillow Patrice used for his back is rumpled on the other side of the bed, the comforter lies open where he extracted himself from under it a few minutes ago. There is ample space for him and an eerie sort of peace to the quiet of the room, to the even rise and fall of Brad’s chest.

“Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?” Patrice asks before his mind has finished formulating the thought. Brad answers by emphatically patting the space next to him.

*

“Why did you name Bergy after me?” he asks from his side of the bed after the following round of feeding. Bergy has really picked up in the last few days and is now as active and hungry as any of them even if he is still the smallest and, if Patrice is being honest, the ugliest. 

“Because,” Brad sighs, his face buried into the pillow he is hugging with both arms, “the vet thought he might die.”

Patrice snorts. It gets better and better the more he asks. “I am glad that made you think of me mon cheri.”

Brad turns his head towards him with a pleased hum and smiles, his eyes still closed.

“What?”

“I like it when you call me that. _Mon cheri._ ” 

Brad’s voice is but a murmur. He absolutely butchers the pronunciation. Patrice freezes for the second time that day as Brad’s smile fades back into sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

To say that Patrice runs away from the bed is an overstatement. He is too old to run away from anything remotely uncomfortable like a teenager but he is also too old to share a bed with a teammate when there is no real justification for doing so. Brad is clearly fine and thank God for that.

He steals a pillow, tucks himself under the throw on the sofa, and closes his eyes.

Timing has never been their friend. If he hadn’t broken things off with Kevin - if Kevin hadn’t wanted more from him than he could give, romantic dinners, and couple’s vacations and a life shared equally - or if Brad got injured when he was still with Jane, it wouldn’t be like this. She would be the one looking after him for one, the world as it should be, and it would be easy for Patrice to remember the boundaries they drew so carefully so long ago.

He sighs and turns to his other side. He has barely drifted off by the time his alarm goes off again.

*

Brad finds him dozing on the floor in the exact spot Patrice found him last night. 

“Jesus,” he whistles. Patrice opens his eyes and has to shield them against the blinding light from the window.

“Please tell me you haven’t slept here the entire night.” Brad says with his arms crossed at his chest.

He doesn’t remember if he is asking then. Good. 

Patrice tells him he only dozed off here after the last round of feeding when Bergy really did not want to be put back into the box.

As if on cue Bergy sticks his head out of Patrice’s sweatshirt pocket and yawns, showing off pink gums and budding teeth.

“Ah.” 

Brad looks between the two of them, biting his lip. He runs a hand through his face and takes in a deep breath before he continues with utmost seriousness- “it _is_ a little early for them to pee on their own.”

At his words Patrice looks down and yep- there is a giant wet stain where one end of the pocket meets the sweatshirt. If he had any questions as to the source of the liquid, they disappear when he touches a hand to it and brings it to his nose.

“Frankly,” Brad continues and he is turning bright red at this point, “I didn’t even know kittens could hold so much pee.”

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation and maybe it’s the way Bergy has back pedaled into the depths of Patrice’s pocket again as if perfectly aware of his crime, but Patrice finds himself laughing at that, slowly at first and then with more and more energy until his whole body is shaking with laughter. 

Brad holds on for a split second longer but soon he is laughing too, leaning on the desk and wiping tears from his eyes.

Meanwhile the cats have been woken up by the commotion and started meowing as if their life is in imminent danger, not that they hear any of that until the worst of their laughter subsides.

Patrice takes Bergy out from what has become his kangaroo pouch, holds him up to eye level and asks, “et tu Brute?” before getting up and handing him to Brad.

“I am so sorry,” Brad says, with a note of seriousness as he takes the offending kitten.

As he moves the muscles on Patrice’s shoulders and his back voice their displeasure at the position they have been made to hold for the last few hours. 

“ _You_ aren’t the one who peed on me,” Patrice replies with a grin, “just make me breakfast to apologize while I shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek man im slammed at work this week and tomorrow's chapter is only half written. someone pray i can steal a stray half hour here or there today :|


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here there be clothes sharing and surprise of all surprises MORE KITTENS!!

The thing about Brad is, he doesn’t cook often but when he does, he makes excellent food. He always claims that his food is nothing special; it most certainly isn’t fancy, but if it came to it Patrice may be willing to kill for Brad’s scrambled eggs or his mac and cheese.

(Patrice for his part tried making lasagna once as a rookie, almost burnt down the house, and has avoided the general vicinity of the kitchen ever since.)

Brad smiles at him from across the table. 

Patrice is aware he must make quite the sight. He is shovelling eggs into his mouth at an alarming speed, appetite fueled by lack of sleep, wearing one of Brad’s t-shirts that is a size too small and exposes his waist every time he leans forward or stretches, not to mention the way his damp hair sticks to his scalp.

“Listen,” Brad says once Patrice has slowed down a little, “I really am sorry for last night to dump the kittens on you like that. It won’t happen again.”

Patrice shrugs as he tears away another piece of toast, thinks with his stomach instead of his brain. 

“I didn’t mind, but you can cook me lunch too if it will make you feel better.”

Brad chuckles, his laughter open and easy, tells him they have a deal.

Shit. He _meant to_ go home after breakfast.

*

He most certainly means to go home after lunch. But then his eyelids become so unbearably heavy and the couch is right there. 

_Just for a moment_ , he thinks as he rests his head on his hand.

Next thing he knows someone is telling him to lift his head to put a proper pillow under it and throwing a blanket over him.

*

Patrice wakes up to golden early evening light filtering in from the floor to ceiling windows and soft meowing. He cranes his neck to find Brad on the other couch with the kittens in and around his lap on a large towel.

“Did we wake you?” Brad asks just as Tuukka makes a swipe for his finger. 

He has made dinner too, and his famous mac and cheese at that. The house smells heavenly and Pasta and Bergy are more than happy to wobble their way onto Patrice's lap when he sits next to Brad.

*

“You know,” Patrice says, once he puts the last of their dishes into the dishwasher. “Backes said fostering is much easier when you have two people. You can still take the shifts in the dead of the night but-”

Backes did not say that, not quite like that anyway, and Patrice isn’t sure what on earth he is doing. He just knows it’s warm and cozy here and there is a distinct lack of kittens in his own house.

And it should be fine, shouldn’t it, as long as he gets his own room to sleep in. Pitching in to help is something friends do.

Brad looks at him; his eyebrows make perfect crescents in his forehead. 

“Dude are you sure? You don’t have any obligation to...” He trails off.

“I know,” Patrice replies, “but I like being paid in food and I asked Pasta if he was my son last night and he said yes.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be yesterday's chapter but then real life got in the way - sorry!

Cats are as much of a rarity in the NHL as brunette significant others but it turns out all the team needed was some exposure. Now that they saw and gotta play with Brad’s kittens they are all obsessed and not entirely in a good way. Right now for example they are discussing whether Torey has a kink involving his earlobes because he let Pasta suckle on them.

“It was completely non-sexual okay!” Torey is protesting, palm raised in self defense, “Pasta initiated it, _and_ either way it is nowhere as weird as Kevan, who had Bruce suckling on his nipple!”

The accusation creates shockwaves in the group; a lone gasp punctures the silence as wide eyes turn to Kevan, demanding an explanation.

“Kevan, what are you not telling us?” Jake asks sweetly, when the initial shock of it passes.

Kevan denies it with full conviction, says that Torey is deflecting.

Torey takes a moment to play with the stirring stick in his coffee, milks the attention he knows he has. He looks up and lets his gaze wander from one person to the next until it finally stops on Kevan-

“The nanny cam says otherwise.”

Patrice does a double take. _The nanny what-?_

“The nanny what?” Tuukka asks echoing Patrice’s thoughts exactly.

“You have video evidence?” comes the more practical reply from Brandon. His lips quirk down in the corners like a shark that has smelled blood and is circling its prey. “You have Kevan breastfeeding a cat on video?”

Torey nods a very self satisfied nod.

“Why the fuck do you have a nanny cam in ou- in Brad’s room?” Patrice asks. The Donatello plushie Torey gifted and set on the bookshelf himself ‘so that the cats would never feel lonely’ is definitely too good to be true in hindsight.

And they haven’t done anything, and he hasn’t been hiding anything but-

Torey tells him Brad should know better than to accept gifts from strangers, complete with a nonchalant shrug. Any reply Patrice might have had gets lost in the commotion the revelation has caused.

“Never put you down for the kinky type.” Pasta says.

“Would Reagan approve?” Jake asks with a dramatic flourish.

“Does your wife know you are cheating on her? With-?” Charlie starts, wiggling his eyebrows but gets interrupted with a loud throat clearing.

Startled, they turn at the same time towards the source of the sound and find Don Sweeney standing at the door of the cafeteria.

*

There is a beat where no one says anything. 

Sweeney is very still where he stands. One of his hands is in his pocket, the other is hovering around chest level, frozen in place. One look at his face and any question they may have had about how much he heard becomes moot.

“I was curious what it was like for my wife,” Kevan says with a shrug, looking Sweeney in the eye. “I didn’t think anyone would ever know and let me tell you- Bruce will suckle on _anything_. He is desperate.”

Sweeney says ‘right’, mechanical and without emotion, asks if there is anything else he should know. There is a slight purple tint to his skin and his left eye is twitching. 

“Bergy peed in someone’s sweatshirt once.”

Patrice nods gravely. Any other time, with anyone else he would stop it, _but-_ They had one too many calls with Quaider that ended with a promise to visit they knew they wouldn’t keep. One too many calls with Dobby that ended with Tuukka more crestfallen than he would ever admit, and well he is enjoying this quite a bit.

“Right,” Sweeney says again. Patrice wonders what the odds are that he is actually having a stroke at the thought of the legal and PR teams he will have to assemble.

“Tuukka also once-” Charlie starts but gets interrupted again, this time by a jovial “how is it going guys?” from their head coach himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i) can you tell im bitter about certain trades that have taken place?  
> (ii) this chapter draws more from real life experience than i'd care to admit


	14. Chapter 14

On Sunday Patrice remembers just how much Brad like Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles. 

After he relays the story and after they can finally get themselves to stop laughing, cheeks flushed from lack of air and tears streaming down their cheeks, it’s time to tend to Torey’s nanny cam and Brad doesn’t want to throw the Donatello plushie away, claiming he can fix it.

He holds it up and examines it carefully to see which eye has the camera. Unfortunately it isn’t the left one as he concludes it is and since neither of them know how to sew, by the time he is done cables are sticking out from behind one loose glassy eye and cotton from behind the other. 

For a moment, they regard what was once a pleasant plushie in silence.

“We are not keeping that,” Patrice starts, stating the obvious conclusion, just as Brad says “I think it’s not that bad.”

Patrice turns to him and gestures at the shelf. 

“It’s an abomination of God masquerading as a turtle Brad.”

“It’s...original but in a good way.” Brad replies, quick as lightning. 

“If we were in a horror movie that thing would murder both of our asses _and_ haunt the house for the next century.”

Brad pats the cursed plushie on the head, says “he doesn’t mean that dear,” before he turns to Patrice and tells him that they aren’t in a horror movie though.

“It’s scaring the cats.” Patrice replies. A low blow maybe but he is not sleeping under the same roof as that thing if he can help it.

As if on cue Bergy lets out a high pitched meow from the box - probably because Tuukka bit his ear again but never mind that - which in turn galvanizes his siblings and causes a commotion.

“See.”

“Fine,” Brad concedes with a huff, or so Patrice thinks. 

“I will take it to my bedroom instead.”


	15. Chapter 15

On Monday Patrice is almost late to the game. 

He sets an alarm before he lies down for his pre-game nap and asks Brad to wake him at 16.30 for good measure. Brad turns off his alarm and wakes him up at 17.15 instead.

When he wakes up, Brad looks breathtaking where he is perched on the edge of the bed, in an effortless, everyday way with his ratty sweatshirt and ungelled hair. Metallic gray skies blend into the soft light of the floor lamps and there is a sense of peace to the room. Patrice yawns, well rested and warm and happy. 

That is, he is warm and happy until he sees the wall clock, at which point he all but throws himself out of the bed, yells at Brad and then trips in the hallway.

Apparently Brad didn’t wake him because he looked too peaceful asleep, deserves all the rest he can get, and they have time.

Patrice groans. He has no idea why following simple instructions has always presented such a significant challenge for Brad. He stops, takes in a deep breath - no use starting a fight now - and tells him that they would indeed have time if he was directly driving to the Garden but he has to stop back at his place first to change into his matchday suit.

“You have a matchday suit here?” comes the innocent and dumbass reply.

“Yes,” Patrice says. He does have a matchday suit at Brad’s place - the very one he spilled salsa all over and didn’t have the time to take to a dry cleaner’s.

Brad grimaces, like a slow and painful lightbulb has finally gone off in his head.

“So _that’s_ why you wanted me to wake you up early.”

*

They run out of the house, with coats they didn’t have the time to put on and scramble into the car.

“I caused this and I will solve it,” Brad says, getting into the driver’s seat. 

Brad behind the wheel in Boston is pure chaos on a good day. Today, all Patrice can do is to hold onto a handle for dear life and wonder if being a healthy scratch and causing a media storm is indeed a worse fate than dying in a car crash as Brad honks and curses at other cars to get out of the way.

It is by some miracle of God they make it to his house and back in one piece, and run only five minutes late.

Just as he is about to dash out, Brad stops him to attempt to put his hair into some semblance of order and fix the tie that is hanging horribly askew in the close space of the car. His hand lingers for a moment too long on Patrice’s collar.

“There,” he says with a soft smile, “now run before Bruce kills you.”

*

It’s only once they win and once they are driving back that Brad tells him that he should bring more of his clothes over given how much he is staying over.

“I have like a lot of space in the closet.” he says.

“Oh I own the closet,” Patrice replies and chuckles at his own lame joke. The adrenaline of the pre-game rush and the game has washed away and left him tired and content.

Brad gives him a look but he must be tired too because he also laughs just a little.


	16. Chapter 16

On Tuesday Patrice attempts to cook for the first time in five years. 

Brad is crestfallen when he comes back from his daily rehab session. He doesn’t want to talk about it but he doesn’t need to when all Patrice knows with one look at his face. 

Trash TV and cats help but only a little. He doesn’t comment on the drama between Cynthia and Kenya on Real Housewives even though they have been gobbling up this arc for the last few days. He smiles when Bruce all but attacks the bottle and puts a tiny front paw on his finger but it fades before Bruce is even done feeding. 

“They think it will take two more weeks than we originally thought before I can play,” he says quietly, unprompted, when he has moved onto Pasta. “That’s end of first round already.”

Patrice closes his eyes. 

_Shit._

He tells Brad they will have him fresh and ready to go for the second round but stops when Brad shuts him down with a look.

*

So, Patrice does what any good friend would, draws Brad a bath to get him out of the way, and brings out the heavy weapons: The one thing that never fails to cheer him are his mom’s pancakes.

That she is a couple thousand miles away forms a small obstacle but there is very little Patrice can’t do - very little he won’t do for Brad - when he puts his mind to it.

*

It quickly becomes evident however that cooking is one of those very few things.

Brad whooshes into the kitchen draped only in a small towel. He is dripping wet, half covered in soap, and the fire alarm won’t stop ringing no matter how hard Patrice tries to waft the smoke out the open window.

“Bergy fuck are you-” Brad coughs. 

“I put off the fire it’s fine,” Patrice says quickly, using his hands to try and move more of the smoke out. He doesn’t know how the pan caught on fire in the first place; one moment he was asking Mrs. Marchand if he was doing it right and in the next there were flames.

“You boys should call the fire department to tell them that so they don’t send out the cavalry,” says Mrs. Marchand from the iPad.

Brad’s head whips around in an instant, trying to locate the source of the sound. 

“Bergy.” he says somewhere between shock and a scary amount of calm. “Is that my mom.”


	17. Chapter 17

Brad threatens Patrice with a knife on Wednesday.

He is making the salad for lunch while dancing to some sick tunes and then in Patrice walks and offers to help as if he didn’t almost burn the place down just yesterday.

Brad stops the music and points the knife towards Patrice.

“No,” he says, “no kitchen for you.”

“Just came to help,” Patrice counters. He usually hates being around the kitchen on principle, let alone when someone is cooking inside it, and Brad is missing that old Patrice at the moment.

“Pat I’m serious. Put that pan down.”

Patrice’s hand freezes midway through the air. He puts the pan back into the drying rack and pouts, bottom lip protruding outwards; tells Brad even he can’t start any fires while drying clean dishes.

Brad just has visions of particularly heavy pots slipping from his hand and breaking toes, glass that shatters and cuts, and forks poking out eyes. As Pasta is fond of saying you only live once but sometimes it’s important to know one’s limits, and to protect life and property. 

“At least I could chop?” Patrice asks as a final resort.

Brad takes in the sight of him, bare feet on Brad’s tile floor and sheepish in a way you wouldn’t associate with Patrice Bergeron, not unlike a kitten who has spilled milk, and sighs.

No matter how hard he tried to stay annoyed at his rudely interrupted bath, or the lingering smell of smoke, or the destroyed pan he hasn’t been able to. Not when this massive idiot who can barely fry eggs picked up on a random piece of information he shared a long time ago and set up a Skype call with his mom to get his favorite comfort food just right.

If Brad told him that it would probably stop his guilty meandering.

“No chopping,” Brad tells him instead, “but you can set the table if you’d like.”

The smile Patrice gives him reaches all the way to his eyes. “You got it,” he says and sets to work with an intensity he usually reserves for faceoffs.


	18. Chapter 18

On Thursday it storms.

Brad has his rehab appointment in the morning and puts in an upper body workout while Patrice is at practice. They are both back at home by early afternoon and none of their other errands seem worth braving the wind and the rain again. Playing with the kittens on the other hand- 

“They are going to be international soccer sensations when they grow up,” Patrice says, his voice warm like sunshine, “the Messi and Ronaldo of feline kingdom.”

Brad turns to look from where he is lying on the floor, careful not to throw over Tuukka and Pasta who are busy exploring the terrain of his chest. On the wooden floor Bruce and Bergy are playing with a ball as tall as their front legs - another gift from Torey - half chasing it and half falling over themselves in the process. It took them a good hour to inspect every surface of the toy to make sure it held no hidden cameras or microphones. Even then they lock it in a watch case outside of play time. At this point it would probably be easier to just buy a new ball.

He starts to say something, something like ‘does that make us soccer dads?’ but before he can Tuukka decides to make the treacherous jump from his chest to his chin, fails, and clings onto the first surface he can for dear life. That surface happens to be the soft skin of Brad’s throat and he falls down anyway, claws drawing a trail in his wake.

Brad half sits up between surprise and self defense which throws Pasta off his chest too. “Ow,” he says just as Pasta lands on the floor with a betrayed yelp. His finger comes back with a small drop of blood when he touches his throat.

“What the fuck man?” he asks Tuukka who looks more scared by the ordeal than anything else.

Patrice chuckles and tells him he is going to go get the iodine.

*

“He is too small to cause any real damage, it’s fine,” Brad says, eyeing Patrice from where he lay back on the floor. Patrice just tells him to stay still. The cotton makes one gentle swipe, then two; the scratch smarts a little. The hairs on Brad’s arms stand on end when Patrice’s finger brushes against his skin and he has to try hard not to swallow.

“All done,” Patrice says with a satisfied smile, “I don’t think it needs a bandaid.”

“How young is too young to cut a kitten’s nails?” Brad asks.

Patrice looks it up. 

They talk about rock climbing, what a soccer league for cats would look like and who between the two of them would make the better soccer mom. Brad wonders what it would be like to lead that life. He imagines what it would be like to be a soccer dad and to drive kids to practice and snuggle in close on rainy weekend mornings - imagines a life he gets to spend with Patrice. 

He would be a gym teacher and Patrice would be a banker and Brad would bring him homemade dinner whenever he was working late.

He thinks about the mess they made when they tried, so long ago now, whether they would still fuck it up without the pressure to live up to the glory of a Cup-winning season, without hockey, how he wants to claw out of his own skin every time the team plays and he has to sit at home helpless. 

Outside rain batters the windows. The floor lamp they have on radiates soft light against the dark skies. An old and mellow French song plays on in the background, and Patrice sits with his back against the wall by Brad’s feet, a smile on his lips as Pasta climbs on his leg.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fridays are just not my day it seems with this current work schedule. I offer my sincere apologies.

On Friday Patrice leaves for a road trip. 

He needs to go home to pack first; he has some stuff over at Brad’s now but not his road suitcase.

Brad prepares an early breakfast for them, a simple affair of oatmeal and fresh fruit. Patrice’s lips quirk into a small and satisfied smile when he takes the first spoonful from his bowl. 

They both have chefs who cook for them when they need it, Brad's food is nowhere near that, and yet Patrice approaches anything he prepares with an enthusiasm that rivals the kittens at feeding time. He has cooked more in these past two weeks than he did in the previous three months combined.

When they are done eating Patrice sets to clean the table and asks him if he needs help with the dishes. 

“Who are you and what have you done with the Bergy I know and love?” Brad asks. There was a time when Patrice would use having to water his plants to duck out of cleaning up after house parties. “If this is about the pancake in-”

Patrice doesn’t let him finish. 

“It isn’t.” he says quickly. “I was just trying to be a good house-” he stops, checks himself, and finishes with ‘ _guest_ ’ even though they both know that was not the word he was going for.

Brad points out that Bruce will kill him, Brad, and then the kittens if Patrice is late to the airport this time.

“Fair,” Patrice says around a chuckle. “Guess I should head out then.”

He is standing at the entrance of the kitchen, hands in his pockets, and looking at Brad like there is something else he wants to say.

He was stalling, Brad realizes. If there is a part of him, irrational and needy, that wanted to accost Patrice for not bringing his stuff over in his road suitcase in the first place, there is a part of Patrice that prefers washing dishes with him to leaving.

Brad doesn't know what to do with that information, the warmth it sparks in his chest, just that Patrice has snapped out of his funk and is headed towards the door.

“Wait.”

He goes into the study and picks up Bergy and and Pasta from the box. Pasta protests loudly at being woken up from his nap.

“Here,” he tells Patrice who is hovering by the door as he hands him Bruce. “They got- they got used to having you around; they will miss you.”

Patrice’s face melts into a smile when he sees the cats. He lifts Bruce up to eye level with one hand and pets his head with the other.

“I know,” he says and he is looking at Brad now. “I am going to miss them too.” There is so very little space between them standing where they are. If Brad just stood on his toes and leaned forward-

Patrice turns back to Bruce and tells him to take good care of Brad while he is away, and then with another smile and with the cat back in Brad’s hands he is gone.

Brad puts the cats down on the carpet and throws himself face down on the sofa. He nearly kissed Patrice, he did not kiss Patrice, and either way he is so fucked.


	20. Chapter 20

The last game on the road is a tough one to take. It’s tied with half of the third to go and then Patrice gives the puck away in the neutral zone, the play leads to a goal, and they never recover.

Brad watches the game end with gritted teeth. When he looks down his knuckles are white where they are curled around the remote. He would throw it against the wall too, but they are hard to replace and he doesn’t want Patrice to come home to its remnants, not again. 

Instead he walks over to the North End and buys two mini cannolis from Modern, gets them dipped in chocolate chips the way Patrice likes it. He eats his on the way back with no grace, gets powdered sugar all over his t-shirt. The other he leaves on the coffee table with a post-it stuck on the box- _mini cannolis are too small to count as cheat desserts_.

It’s not much but, he supposes it’s better than nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern > Mike's FIGHT ME.


	21. Chapter 21

When Brad shuffles downstairs in the morning the house is quiet and the mini cannoli lies undisturbed in its box. He frowns at its now soggy and miserable form and goes to check on the guest room Patrice has taken over. The bed is undisturbed and there is no suitcase or sign of Patrice. 

A quick google search - thank heavens - shows nothing out of ordinary with their return flight. Brad composes a quick text before he checks on the kittens. **You didn’t come home last night?** becomes **you didn’t come back to mine last night?** before he hits send.

 **Yeah it was late** comes the answer a couple of minutes later, followed by **you mind if I come over for lunch?**

Brad balances the bottle Bruce is all but attacking in one hand and stares at the small bright screen he is holding in the other.

Since when does Patrice need permission to come over?

*

“So.” Patrice says once they have eaten and settled in the living room. He is sitting in the armchair across from Brad, hands clasped between his legs and elbows resting on his knees. He hasn’t asked to look at the kittens once since he came in and if Brad couldn’t tell there was something on his mind, that on its own would be enough.

“I don’t think I should stay over anymore.” 

And there it is.

“I don’t think there is any need for me to.” Patrice continues. “You can wean the kittens next week, they already learned how to use the litter box and before you know it they will be ready for adoption.”

He takes in half a breath and looks at Brad as if to gauge his reaction, a pained expression on his face. It feels like a throwback to the time he sat Brad down and said _I don’t this is working_ , except there are laughter lines around their eyes now. 

“I am not giving them up for adoption.” Brad replies. Somehow it feels like the most pertinent thing to respond to. 

“Right,” Patrice says, on autopilot and devoid of emotion. 

There is another beat where they sit in silence and it’s ridiculous really, how much it stings, when Patrice has been only staying over for the past couple of weeks, when it was meant to be temporary to begin with.

“Do you want to see the cats?” Brad asks which breaks Patrice from his own reverie with a small start.

He shakes his head and says he should go.

*

“We are kind of a disaster together anyway,” Patrice says at the door with a chuckle he tries very hard to make sound genuine. “I was almost late to the game because of you, your kitchen almost burnt down because of, almost crashed the car--”

Brad stops him right there. It’s news to him that Patrice almost crashed his car.

“Doesn’t matter-” Patrice replies with a small shrug, zips up his jacket. “It was fine.” 

Information he didn’t mean to divulge.

Brad watches him go and thinks back to rain that battered their windows and Patrice’s smile as he brushed Bergy and he purred in utter delight. He thinks back to Patrice sleepy and famished in the morning, digging in to the scrambled eggs Brad made, glowing as if it was food meant for the gods themselves.

None of it has felt like a disaster to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant this to be an open honest discussion and bergy just refused to listen to me >:(


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i have been mia for two weeks but work is out to murder me i tell no lies. i hope this chapter makes up for some of that absence, and ahem for where i left things off!

Patrice avoids him. He doesn’t avoid him avoid him - they see each other at team dinners and after home games. He just doesn’t come over and doesn’t respond much to the cat pictures and videos Brad sends to the group chat.

So when Patrice scores the game winning goal with a minute left against the Leafs and when Brad opens his arms and greets him in the locker room with a ‘that’s how you do it, baby!’ all on instinct, all before he can think, he freezes for a moment, arms wide open at his sides, doesn’t know if he is allowed.

Patrice goes right in though, beaming at him, and holding nothing back. Brad can smell the sweat and the adrenaline of the win on his jersey. He buries his head in Patrice’s neck and it’s like the old times, like drawing breath.

The euphoria carries over through to the dinner - bless these afternoon games - they joke and chatter away and Patrice leans from all the way across, elbows on the table when Brad pulls out the video that was too precious for the chat. He all but coos when Bruce steps into the food bowl, four paws and all, while Bergy tries to eat Brad’s finger.

“Can’t believe they have grown up so fast,” he says, voice like wonder.

 _Can’t believe you left_ , Brad thinks, though what is it that Patrice has left exactly? What was there to begin with?

If he drank more than one beer he would blame it on the alcohol, the way he waits to leave until Patrice does.

They walk out side by side in silence; it would be familiar and comfortable on any other day. 

Brad shivers when they step outside. It’s still chilly out at night and it’s not even half the reason.

“So are we ever going to talk about what happened or nah?” he asks into the night air.

Patrice doesn’t stop but his step falters, he pivots towards Brad, a frown on his face.

 _Whatever_ did _happen?_ Brad can hear Patrice ask in his mind. He doesn’t have the answer.

“Yes,” Patrice says instead, looks around, “but not here.”

*

“So,” Patrice says, drawing in a breath, his hands carefully arranged on his lap. “The thing is I like you.”

They are sitting in Patrice’s car and it’s dark and it’s quiet and Patrice’s words shift and twist until Brad isn’t sure what he heard.

“Oh I like me too,” he says on autopilot. “People ask me all the time if I fell from the vending machine because I’m a sna-

“No.” Patrice says, cutting him off.

“I _like_ you like you. Romantically.”

Oh.

“I had known for a while but I thought I could will it away if I didn’t look, if I was careful enough, but it was foolish. And then that day at the door - and - I almost crashed the car on the way home.”

Brad’s first instinct is to ask if he is okay, to make sure he is okay, but it’s stupid because of course he is and that was a week ago.

“So I can’t live with you.” Patrice continues when the silence stretches and Brad doesn’t say anything back. “I can’t be too close. I thought I could but I can’t. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about it earlier.”

“I like you too?” Brad offers when the part of his brain responsible for language finally kicks back in. 

That draws a chuckle from Patrice, too heartfelt. 

“Yeah I figured that much when you almost kissed me you dumbass.”

Oh.

Was he that obvious?

Regardless, now it’s his turn to chuckle. 

He likes Patrice. Patrice likes him back. A rebellious, bitter part of him wants to lean over and crash their faces together, tell Patrice well there is no issue then is there.

 _We were kind of a disaster together anyway_ , the words echo in his mind.

The fights that made it hard to look Patrice in the eye at practice, the games they blew, the nights they spent hating themselves for letting that happen, and the mornings they took it out on each other. How much effort it took to recalibrate their friendship afterwards echoes in his mind, how much it took to let go of the hurt, and so does Patrice’s laughter, soft and open on the kitchen floor at 1am, their hands curled together around an ice cream tub.

“We were so young back then,” he says instead. It’s desperate hope that speaks and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. “We didn’t know how to deal with the pressure.”

Patrice shakes his head and Brad wants to leave. He wants to leave right now before he hears the next thing out of Patrice’s mouth.

“Brad.” Patrice says, his name like a prayer on his lips. 

He closes his eyes. 

“If. If we are to give it another go, it can’t be weeks out from the playoffs. Can’t be when you will return in the middle of a Cup run. We need bandwidth to figure out how to make it work with hockey. That is-”

Patrice has a point and that makes s-. 

“-if you were up for it too.”

 _Wait_.

Did Patrice just- 

He replays the words ‘give it another go’ and ‘if you were up for it’ in his mind, once, twice, tries to see if he is sure Patrice just said what Brad thinks he said, what it means.

Then once he has convinced himself, Brad nods. A grin breaks on his lips, slowly at first and then expands more and more until it has taken over his entire face. He takes Patrice’s hand in his, tells him he can wait. 

And then, he leans in, because he can and because he needs _something_ if he will wait for weeks if not months. Patrice closes the distance between them. His lips are just as soft as Brad remembers and his breath quivers in the enclosed space of the car before they draw away.

*

Patrice stops him as he is about to get into his car. 

“No,” he says, blocking the way to the door. “Neither of us is driving tonight. Call an uber.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work is still murder and yet slowly but surely i am writing this!! thanks for bearing with me <3

People ask about it and Brad finds it difficult to explain the spring in his step.

He is making good progress, they are going to the playoffs, the kittens get big enough to roam the whole house. They fall asleep on his chest and wake him begging for food at 7am and Brad finds himself smiling even through the frustrating days at the gym, through the pain.

Patrice smiles at him too when he catches Brad’s eye sometimes, almost shy, anticipation a physical presence in the air between them. If they don’t spend too much alone time still it’s alright. 

Brad can wait.

*

The kittens create a ruckus of course the next time Patrice comes over with Pasta and Torey in tow, meowing loudly, showering Patrice and only Patrice with their fickle love.

“Should have named them Brutus 1 through Brutus 4,” Brad says, watching the cats climb all over Patrice’s lap and shoulders. There is such little heat in his voice Pasta raises his eyebrows at him, shakes his head in a best approximation of _do I even want to know_.

*

Brad thinks he is going to sprout wings and start flying the first time he steps back onto the ice, never mind that a mere ten minute skate leaves him sore. 

Later, when he joins the team for his first practice back in a non-contact jersey they bring out a cake. It’s small, it’s low-fat and low-sugar and tastes kind of like bread and it’s the best thing he tasted in months what with the cheers and applause of his teammates, and the sheer pride emanating from Patrice.

*

And then the playoffs hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heheh sorry for the minor cliffhanger!


	24. Chapter 24

Playoffs go...well Brad only had one season in the NHL in which the end of the season didn’t leave him bitter and disappointed. They make it past the first round as he shouts and cheers from the sidelines and his living room. He even gets in a couple of goals in the second but it’s not enough. He doesn’t have his skating legs back, they don’t have what it takes and their Cup dreams fizzle away in six excruciating games.

Nobody speaks a word in the locker room, nobody ever does after playoff exits. Patrice is crestfallen, his brow knit in a furious frown but there is nothing for him to channel his anger to, nothing that will make it alright. Brad is in his own head too, thinking about everything he could have done and everything he didn’t do, so much so that he doesn’t notice Patrice following him until the passenger door of his car closes with a sharp click and gives him a start.

He doesn’t ask Patrice why he is there, where he is going, just drives home.

Patrice barely waits until the front door is closed before he pushes Brad against a wall. His lips find Brad’s in a furious kiss and Brad returns it, just as desperate, digs his fingers into the nape of Patrice’s neck. 

It doesn’t make it alright, not really, but it’s something, to have Patrice there.

Patrice tugs Brad’s suit jacket off without breaking the kiss, shoves his hand underneath Brad’s shirt, searching, demanding. Brad shivers at how cold his palm is against his skin, a contrast to his hot breath. He pushes Patrice back, forcing him to break the kiss. Patrice stands a step away, looks at him, haggard and disheveled, panting, his lips pink. Lost. 

Brad wants to shove him against the opposing wall, take control this time, but cats have little regard for painful playoff losses. Just as he is closing the distance between them in a single sharp step Pasta tangles in between his feet and sends him flying forward into Patrice instead. Pasta gets the fuck out with a betrayed yowl and Patrice catches him with two strong hands on his arms even as he stumbles back with their combined weight too. 

Brad stays there for a moment, angles his head so that his forehead is pressed against Patrice’s chest rather than his nose. Patrice doesn’t let go either, just holds him where he is, fingers digging a little too sharply into Brad’s arms. And then Brad laughs. It starts as a slow mutilated sound - it would be a giggle if it wasn’t so deranged - until it bubbles up to a roaring laugh. It infects Patrice too and soon they are both shaking to their core, laughing, tears streaming down their cheeks. 

That’s their life right there. They literally can’t even do the furious post loss making out right. Trying to be suave and getting tangled in a cat instead.

Patrice wipes the tears from his own eyes when they finally draw apart, takes in a shaky breath. His other hand has never left Brad’s arm. Brad wipes at his own eyes too.

When he looks down there are four pair of glowing, unblinking eyes looking up at him from two steps away in the dim light of the hallway. The cats are regarding the two of them as if they are fascinating aliens or maybe prey, but they seem to have learned their lesson from what happened to Pasta so it’s from a distance.

Brad must admit they have a point given the inhuman sounds the two of them were just making. It makes him want to break into deranged laughter all over again.

“I’m going to feed the children and you better be on my bed and naked when I come back,” he tells Patrice with as much authority as he can muster for someone who just went flying after tripping on one orange fluffy ball. 

Patrice snorts and ruffles his hair.

“Aye aye captain.”

*

They aren’t gentle with each other that night, once the cats have been fed and promptly locked out of the bedroom. Patrice wants him, all of him, wants him to moan and to beg, and Brad would give it to him usually, he would give Patrice anything he wants, but he is angry tonight too. So he makes Patrice work for it, fights him back, sucks at his ear and presses into a bruise he knows is going to hurt. When Patrice comes inside of him with a choked off cry and Brad comes a short time later, they collapse onto the bed next to each other, utterly spent. Brad looks at the ceiling, breathing hard, and without the energy to even move a finger. He has waited for this for so long, he has wanted this, Patrice, for so long, and now that he’s had it, it only dents the emptiness that sits in his core. The sharp taste of bile from knowing that it’s all done. That they had a shot, that he trained and worked hard to come back, and now it’s all gone and there is nothing he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the closest i have come to writing smut. comments and validation welcome as always.


	25. Chapter 25

Brad wakes up at 5am to something that sounds like someone is trying tear the door apart with multiple tiny saws. He sits up in alarm, uncomprehending, before he realizes that they did not remember to open the door at night to let the cats in. His heart sinks when in the next moment he realizes too that their playoff run is over. But still, cats don’t stop demanding breakfast before sunrise just because your heart is crushed. 

Next to him Patrice is asleep on his stomach with his face pressed so very ungracefully into the pillow and his mouth hanging open. Whether from the cats or Brad jostling the bed, his eyes flutter open. He looks at Brad with unseeing, heavy lidded eyes and mumbles “no, don’t go,” reaching out a hand that is surprisingly strong. 

Brad chuckles at the sorry state of him - it wouldn’t be endearing on any other man - and tells him he will be back as soon as he feeds the cats. It takes some prying to loosen the death grip Patrice has on his wrist but Patrice yields in the end and buries his head further into the pillow with an unhappy grunt.

He does come back once the cats are fed - Brad loves them to death but they are four hellhounds when they are hungry - and snuggles up to Patrice who has since turned to his side, buries his head in the crook of Patrice’s neck. He wonders what’s going to happen when the sun rises and they wake up for good, whether last night was a one time thing, a fluke. But Patrice is so soft and warm in his arms and words echo in his head - the ‘don’t go’ and the ‘if we give this another try.’ He falls asleep again before he knows it, only swats an absent hand when Bergy stuffs his tail into his nose and curls around his head on the pillow.

*

When they wake up it goes like this.

Patrice looks at him from the bed, wide-eyed for a moment, like he doesn’t know where he is or what has happened. But he relaxes in the next; a smile blossoms across his lips as he exhales.

“Morning,” he says, with no intention of getting up and the knot in Brad’s throat loosens in return too. 

They lie there for at least another hour, petting the cats that jump on and off the bed, petting each other by accident in between, with nowhere to be and defeat heavy on their shoulders.

Brad makes breakfast when they get up. He doesn’t blame Patrice when he eats it slowly, picking at it, instead of scarfing it down with an outrageous grin like he usually does. The scrambled eggs are too salty and on the soggier side. Food - no food - has ever tasted good the day after a playoff exit.

They deposit the plates carelessly into the dishwasher (and that only to keep the cats from starting a licking expedition on the table or the sink) and deposit themselves onto the couch. Patrice slides to his left until he is sitting right next to Brad, and presses himself into Brad until Brad wraps an arm around him. He tucks his legs under him and half sits half lies with his head on Brad’s chest.

Brad clicks on the first show that looks interesting on Netflix that they haven’t seen - the Crown - without thinking very much about it at all.

They have hardly said twenty words to each other since last night. Brad half expects Patrice to whine - ‘the British royal family, really?’ - it’s not his kind of show and it’s not Brad’s either but Patrice doesn’t. Neither of them have it in them to care. 

And so they sit there and watch, disappointment thick in the air between them. At some point it starts to rain. At some point Brad dozes off. He feels Patrice sit up, tug at him so that he is half lying on Patrice instead. Raindrops patter against the windows and fingers card through his hair as characters drone on in the background in posh British accents about the Queen and the country.

Patrice kisses him when Brad wakes up. Pins him against the couch and finds his lips, less desperate this time, slower. Brad has forgotten what a good kisser he is, how he takes control and pushes and pulls until all you can think, all you know, starts and ends between his lips.

It’s gotten dark outside by the time they realize they need to eat again, not because either of them has the appetite, but because it seems to be the least amount of kindness they can offer their bodies. Brad makes pasta, bland as it goes. He knows they need to talk. But he doesn’t know if he is ready to lose at one more thing, to lose the one thing that means the world to him. Whether he can survive that. 

So he kisses Patrice some more instead and lets him fuck him at night again, falls asleep curled into his arms.

*

In the end they don’t talk until after breakup day. Neither of them have left Brad’s apartment until that point, not even to get groceries, binge watching a show they don’t care about until their eyes are bleary, and playing with cats instead.

“I promised my family I’d visit them in Halifax,” Brad says while they are driving to Warrior, from the passenger seat of the car.

Patrice hums noncommittally.

“Come with me.”

Brad doesn’t look at Patrice, his eyes tracking the gray clouds and the rain-wet streets outside the window instead.

He could tell Patrice his mom is dying to see him again. He could tell he needs a pair of extra hands with the cats because travelling with four of them is a lot. He still doesn’t know how he will survive if Patrice has changed his mind, if the last few days have been a fluke born out of necessity and desperation. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Only if you come to Quebec with me after,” Patrice replies. “And you need to charm my mom because she was expecting me to come home right away too.”

Brad exhales sharply. His head whips around. Patrice looks away from the road for a moment to give him a small smile. 

In the end, it’s as simple as that. 

Patrice wants to come with him to Halifax. 

Patrice wants him.


	26. Chapter 26

When Brad takes Patrice to Halifax -- and he’s taken Patrice to Halifax before, once. Summer 2011. He felt like he was living in a dream back then. Everything he wanted and more was at his fingertips, his hometown was like an old friend he was dying for Patrice to meet. It had felt like it was too good to be true and it was.

Maybe that’s why he can’t shake the sliver of unease off his shoulders now. It has settled there as the elation of finally having Patrice receded. 

And it creeps up in his chest when his family swarms Patrice with hugs and wide smiles and lively chatter. Brad tries to tell his parents and brother to cool it off a little but nobody in the Marchand family seems to know the meaning of the word. It wakes him up in the dead of the night, crashes in his ears alongside the waves when he makes his way to the beach. The moon refracts on the choppy sea in a thousand shards of silver gray, the only source of light other than the faint glow of Brad’s family’s house in the distance. Patrice pulls Brad in when Brad gets back, he doesn’t know how much time later. “Sleep,” he drawls, petting his shoulder with a heavy hand. Almost a decade ago, Patrice’s hair is slicked back from the wind blowing without mercy from the ocean. He writes 63 on the sand with a stick, just beyond the reach of the waves, and gives Brad the wildest of grins as he draws a heart around it. Brad strokes Pasta’s head who has settled around his head on the pillow, and sighs. He doesn’t know if he will survive, if he will be able to put himself back together if they fuck it up again.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” Patrice says the next morning. He either didn’t notice Brad sneak out of the bed in the middle of the night or knows better than to mention it.

Brad moves Pasta and Bruce out of the way -- they are meowing for food in the space between him and Patrice – and reaches out a hand to touch Patrice’s forehead. He doesn’t feel too warm. 

“I think it’s for the best if I stayed back,” Patrice continues, an apology tucked into his voice, “I have no energy and this cold, whatever it is, will get worse in open air.”

Brad feels his mouth hang open at that for a split second. They are supposed to go on a multi-day hunting trip today, him, his father, brother, and Patrice. It’s incredibly concerning whenever Patrice wants to cancel on something because he doesn’t feel well -- the man will power through anything short of life threatening and then some, whether injury or sickness, and especially so when it comes to things that matter to Brad. One the other hand, he has a bit of a track record for avoiding going hunting at all costs and only gave the most reluctant of yeses to Brad this time around. At either rate, that bone deep anxiety rears its head in his chest again.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t feel well,” he says a little too quickly, trying to read into the expression on Patrice’s face.

Patrice finds Brad’s hand and stroking his wrist with his thumb, tells Brad he should definitely go. He knows how much Brad has been looking forward to this and Patrice hardly has the bubonic plague.

“I will just hang out here with the cats and your mom,” Patrice reassures, “we will be fine. And we will still be here when you come back.”

Brad considers. It will be too much to cancel on his dad and brother now when Patrice doesn’t so much as have a temperature and is telling him to go, and Brad has been itching to get out there into the fresh air with his crossbow and the ancient pines around him for ages.

And so, Brad gives his mom a rundown of how to deal with a sick Patrice (never take Patrice’s word that he is fine because he will lie, sneakily check if he has a fever if he looks chilly because he will lie, don’t hesitate to tell him off because he knows he is a bitch when he is sick or injured) and with uncertainty heavy on his shoulders heads to the woods with his dad and brother.


	27. Chapter 27

Brad calls his mom first thing when he has cell reception again four days later, half expecting Patrice to be in the hospital and half expecting his mom to be out of her mind with frustration. But his mom laughs on the other end of the line, happy and open.

“Relax,” she says as if she read his mind, “Pat is fine. We had a wonderful time. How was the trip?”

Brad grins at that, feels his shoulders sag with relief. The trip was great. Open air always helps him clear his mind and he had missed hanging out with his dad and Jeff, (even if they kept ribbing him about when they could plan the wedding,) not to mention the two stags they shot.

Moreover the house smells incredible when they get there, the tell tale mark of chicken alfredo, otherwise known as Brad’s favorite dish.

Bruce tangles between his feet just as Patrice and his mom emerge from the dining room, sporting matching, wide smiles. Patrice draws him in for a hug and gives him a quick kiss on the lips. He looks good, healthy for one, but beyond that-- He is wearing basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt that’s a little too big for him, he is barefoot, and his hair is delightfully messy. 

“You are just in time,” he says warmly, “we were just starting to set the table.”

Brad shoots his mom a quick look at the ‘we’ to make sure the kitchen and her china are still in one piece but she smiles back, telling him what a great help Patrice has been. Patrice beams at the compliment and Brad needs to pinch himself to make sure he hasn’t ended up in some alternate reality. Who is this domestic Patrice and what has he done with the man Brad knows and loves.

When they sit down for dinner, their start gets delayed for two minutes when Bergy jumps on his lap as soon as he sits and Tuukka sidesteps the lap part and jumps straight on the table, and makes a beeline for the food.

Brad and Patrice get up almost at the same time, tutting, and with a cat under each arm, deposit their furry children outside the dining room despite their loud protests.

When Brad finally wraps some pasta around his fork, with the cats banished from human company until they are done with dinner and his mouth watering with anticipation it’s—

Well for one, the chicken is drier than any chicken his mom ever made, the pasta is too creamy and definitely too salty.

Next to him, he sees his dad frown before he composes his face.

Not Patrice though. Across the table Patrice is looking at him with—anticipation Brad would say if he didn’t know any better, grinning with his fingers steepled on the table.

“How is the food?” he asks, a little too eager, nervous almost.

Brad looks at his mom and opens his mouth but his mom winks, her smile now positively conspiratorial.

Brad frowns, confused, but he will always be glad that his mind connects the dots in the next moment before he can say anything.

The pasta tastes like a solid first effort by an amateur -- almost like the cooking of someone who had a great teacher and an unbreakable will to make up for their total lack of culinary talent.

He remembers running out of a lovely bath on a bum knee to the sound of the fire alarm, finding Patrice meek and repentant in a smoke filled kitchen because he set the stove on fire trying to make the pancakes that never fail to cheer Brad up.

It takes Brad a lot of willpower not to tear up, not at the dining room table, not in the middle of all his family.

“It’s the best chicken alfredo I ever had,” he says instead, looking at his mom, doesn’t miss the way Patrice’s face lights up at the words. Jeff opens his mouth like he will say something but Brad steps hard on his foot under the table before he can. “I don’t know what your secret is mom, but nothing even comes close to your cooking. Nothing makes me happier.”

He wonders how many tries it must have taken Patrice to get the dish almost right. Whether he spent the entire four days trying to learn something he has no talent or interest in, just because it makes Brad happy. 

*

“How bad was it?” he asks his mom when he gets her alone as they wash the dishes, just the two of them, like they always do when Brad visits.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” his mom replies around a smile, feigning innocence.

“Oh you know exactly what I mean.”

His mom laughs at that, the sound drowned out by running water.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she admits, “Patrice is...he is very methodical and serious. I tried to tell him cooking could be fun and he didn’t need to treat it like overtime in Game 7 but I don’t know how much I succeeded there.”

At that Brad laughs as well because he can imagine it so clearly -- Patrice standing a couple feet away from where he is now, a look of utter determination on his face, the way he gets when he is rallying the troops in a game they are trailing in. The pasta he is straining treated with the same ruthless conscientiousness as Connor McDavid with the puck on his stick.

“He loves you,” his mom says, elbowing him in the ribs.

Brad inhales sharply, his chest ready to burst with a multitude of emotions, this warmth that won’t be contained.

“I love him,” he admits quietly.

But see the thing is, he has always loved Patrice, more than he can put to words.

He just hopes love is enough this time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I might skip tomorrow because I need to structure the ending  
> \- The chicken alfredo is a nod to Caroline's [in an instant, a spark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211455) which is the best cooking fic you will read this year or in the next if you haven't read it already.


	28. Chapter 28

Back then, they had fought about the most trivial things when the season started - Patrice’s failure to please put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher even after being told repeatedly, and he is really trying now but will he still when the season kicks off and they are either busy or exhausted all the time? - and some things that weren’t. 

Brad had told Seggy they were dating (or squeed at Seggy would be a better way to put it) without asking Patrice. Seggy had made a lewd, pointed joke in the locker room the moment they got together for pre-season camp and no one quite caught onto it, except for maybe Zee, but Patrice thundered at him that night nonetheless for being so careless. Brad had never seen such unbridled fury on Patrice’s face before, let alone directed to him and for what reason -- Seggy was his friend -- was their friend.

See, Brad had always been the type to want to shout his love from rooftops for all the world to hear. Not when he was dating just any random guy, and he hadn’t dated many guys anyway, he had some sense of self preservation but--

“Why are you so ashamed of me,” he had asked Patrice on a different night. He knew he was too much for Patrice, wanted too much from Patrice but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less. And Brad fought when he was hurt, he always had.

On a different night still he had shoved Patrice when they had argued again the day before -- he didn’t even remember about what -- and played a dismal game that day, allowed the team to lose a game they could very well win, disgusted with himself as he was angry with Patrice. It wasn’t a particularly hard shove but Patrice lost his footing and hit his back against the door knob he was standing in front of. Brad had circled and kissed the bruise that blossomed on his skin later, heart heavy with guilt and regret, but it did nothing to help it heal any faster.

That summer had felt like heaven, when it was just the two of them, walking hand in hand in streets where no one knew who they were and no one cared, and it was incredible really how quickly it all unraveled around them the moment they went back to their real lives.

And so this time around, Brad spends the rest of this summer cataloging every intimate detail about Patrice. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs early in the morning when he isn’t yet quite awake, the way his body arches just so when Brad licks a line up his thigh. He savors the way his chicken alfredo tastes, too dry and too soggy all at once. He maps every inch of Patrice’s body - the mole in between his shoulder blades, the vast expanse of his skin and his gorgeous cock - commits it to memory. 

Just in case.


	29. Chapter 29

They leave the cats with Brad’s family so as not to drag them along from one place to another. When they head to Quebec Brad doesn’t have to, he supposes. He could stay back as he originally planned, let Patrice go on his own. It’s probably not that healthy for a couple that new to spend every moment together. Patrice never suggests it though and neither does he. Because they do want to spend every moment together. Just in case. In 2011 the summer was all they had. 

The Bergeron-Cleary’s are good people; they welcome them with hugs and open smiles, coo at the fifty cat videos on Brad’s phone alongside them. Two days after they arrive, Brad is supposed to be helping Patrice’s dad with his tomatoes out in the yard while Patrice shows off his new culinary skills to help his mom in the kitchen. Brad knocks off his water bottle by accident though, and goes inside to refill it; it’s a hot day and they are in the sun. As he crosses the yard, he plots how to land a sneaky kiss on Patrice’s neck while his mom isn’t looking and smiles to himself at his evil plan, at the anticipation of the soft skin of Patrice’s neck against his lips. 

He stops a few feet from the kitchen and the smile fades from his lips.

His French is still dismal but not dismal enough to miss what Patrice’s mom is saying. “With Brad -- are you sure this is a good idea?”

Patrice inhales sharply and sighs. Brad doesn’t need to see Patrice to know he is running a hand through his face. Brad catches the “I don’t know,” even as the rest of his answer gets snagged by the language barrier and is lost to Brad.

He gets very little sleep that night -- eventually gives up on the bed altogether and settles on the swing out on the porch. The night is cool around him and quiet except for the crickets. No sound of the traffic here, no light pollution. You can see the stars above the dark silhouettes of the trees, same as Nova Scotia. 

He wonders whether if he had a son, and a son as perfect as Patrice, if he’d want the kid to date Brad. He thinks about the slewfoots, his reputation, how much it would harm Patrice if word got out. Probably not. And it’s a strange thing -- to have everything you ever wanted and still feel this crushing weight on your chest. To know it will all fall apart around you; you just don’t know when.

Is it a good idea what they are doing? 

Brad doesn’t know either.


	30. Chapter 30

“You mind if I join?”

The sound startles Brad.

“It’s just me,” Patrice says, standing with a small smile on his lips and his hands buried deep into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Brad scoots over on the swing to make room and Patrice sits down next to him without waiting for a further invite.

He looks gorgeous like this, almost ethereal in the night. Then again he almost always does.

“Can I ask you a question,” Brad says, his eyes lost in the trees in the distance.

_Why did you say yes to me if you don’t know whether this is a good idea? What will we do when--_

“When you realized you liked me - what was the one thing I did that you found sexy but couldn’t admit to?”

Patrice laughs with his whole body at that; the sound reverberates in the summer air, clear and beautiful, before it dissipates.

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Brad turns to him now in an instant. The guilt in Patrice’s voice is unmistakable and even if it wasn’t the expression on his face would give him away. He never did have a good poker face when cameras aren’t around.

“Bergy.”

Patrice meets his eye and bites down on his lip.

“We _are_ trying to keep this from affecting our game.”

Oh? 

Brad’s game has encompassed quite a few questionable elements over the years and now he is dying to know which gets Patrice’s blood pumping. He hasn’t slewfooted anyone in some time and while he has been told off for licking opponents the league - thankfully - has no window into his bedroom. 

“Promise I know better,” he cajoles and pokes Patrice with his foot. Now he has to know. “You can ask me any question in return and I have to answer. Just please tell me.”

Patrice sighs and Brad would grin with victory if he felt just a little less like he was suffocating.

“I find it-- hot--,” Patrice starts in a small voice, embarrassed by the admission, “whenever you drop the gloves and really go at someone, no holds barred.”

Oh does he now. Of everything Patrice could have told him, this Brad didn’t see coming. He tells Patrice he will gladly beat up anyone for him -- anyone he’d like. He can’t help the glee in his voice and how he is grinning for real now. Patrice gives him a look that can only be described as mortified.

“Dear Lord no.”

“Maybe only for anniversaries and special occasions?”

“Brad no.”

“Only to people who really deserve it?”

At that Patrice swats at his arm, reminds him he promised. Brad drops the point with a grumble but files the idea away for only to people who deserve it to be done on anniversaries and special occasions. If they get to have any of those.

Silence descends between them, the only sound that of the crickets chirping away once again. A gentle but cool breeze makes Brad almost wish he brought a cardigan or a sweatshirt with him. He rubs at his arms absentmindedly to get some warmth back into them.

Patrice Bergeron, Mr. Nice Guy and an actual saint, likes it when Brad drops the gloves and fights, huh. What a world. If he could Brad would drop his gloves right now and get to fighting. He is thinking Callahan. It would also hurt less maybe when he has a split lip or a bloody nose, something physical to hold the pain.

“My turn,” Patrice says sometime later and Brad braces himself for the question.

If Patrice asks the same thing, he will have to tell Patrice of the many random videos of Patrice speaking French he looked up on YouTube, mostly during offseason, because the language sounds like a chorus of angels singing when he speaks it. Every single time he had told himself it was to improve his French, fooling no one, but the irony was it really did improve his listening comprehension. Sitting here, tonight, he would have liked it if it didn’t but it’s too late for that now.

“Why did you name the runt of the litter after me?”

Ah.

Brad smiles and runs a hand through his face. Suddenly any question about French sounds so innocent.

“Because--” he starts, and Patrice deserves the truth, Brad promised him as much, but the truth feels like pulling out his teeth one by one with no anesthetic. He picks a star in the vast expanse of the night sky above them and keeps his eyes fixed firmly on it.

Brad’s grandma you see taught him that there was power in names, that he should think carefully when he had kids of his own one day or even if he named a pet or a plant. And Brad thought-- if a name could give this tiny runt, this kitten that the vet didn’t know would make it, a 1% better shot at surviving, that wasn’t nothing. And so he named the runt after someone who could be sent to hell and claw his way back every time.

Someone who was his favorite person in the entire world, someone who loved and cared with all his heart, who never gave up.

Brad is proud of himself for how he kept his voice from breaking even if it was barely above a whisper but he can feel tears stinging in his eyes now, everything he held together coming apart. Patrice is quiet next to him and Brad knows. He knows it’s too much, that he is too much, always has been, but he needs just one thing, _this one thing_ , to work out. He wants Patrice, he needs Patrice, even as he has him.

Something touches the back of his hand and Brad startles before the object registers as Patrice’s fingers. 

“Brad.” 

Patrice’s voice is so so quiet and when Brad forces himself to look his eyes are glistening even in the very little light there is on the porch.

“I know it’s too much,” Brad admits, feeling his heart break even as he forces himself to smile. There are tears in his eyes too. 

Patrice shakes his head.

“No, mon cher--” he starts, stops, and a memory or a dream maybe flickers at the back of Brad’s mind at the nickname. 

“You have no idea how much that means to me.” Patrice looks down at where their hands are joined in the space between them and his lips quirk up in a smile. “God, I love you so much.”

It’s the first time he said it out loud and it must be the hundredth and it should not matter but something twists in Brad’s chest for an entirely different reason now. He puts his free hand on Patrice’s chin, strokes his cheek with his thumb.

Brad isn’t even trying to hide that he is crying when he tells Patrice that he loves him too. 

Brad almost tells Patrice that he overheard his conversation with his mom earlier that day without meaning to. Almost asks him whether he thinks this is a good idea. But he doesn’t.

And maybe it’s Patrice who pulls him in, maybe Brad buries his face on Patrice’s shoulder on his own. But either way they sit there for a long time, in a quiet porch outside Quebec City, holding each other as they cry, quietly hoping that what they have is enough this time around.

That when the season kicks off and the real world kicks in, they will be strong enough to weather the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading friends! It took six months longer than I planned to but it's done. Comments are my life blood and what keep me coming to write more so please drop me a line if you liked the fic.


End file.
